The Holly & The Ivy
by HeyiyaIf
Summary: A Wintersend fic based on the traditional Xmas carol. Alistair, Cousland, Dog, Morrigan and Flemeth.


**_Wintersend story! Inspired by Loreena McKennit's version of 'The Holly and the Ivy'. Fabulous carol, especially the way she does it! Tweaked religious names in lyrics so as to apply to Thedas verse. _**

**_Usual disclaimers apply._**

* * *

><p><em>The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown,<em>

_Of all the trees in the wood, the holly bears the crown._

It's snow now, deep and heavy, the kind that sticks to your boots and sits on the trees like whipped cream and icing. He stomps through it, briefly entertaining the thought of just darting through the undergrowth and run away. To Orlais, perhaps, or Weisshaupt. Duncan told him about Weisshaupt often enough. It sounded like a grand place, if a tad weird. He'd much rather like to go to Weisshaupt, even with the weird Anders there, than to Denerim. Denerim is full of responsibility, and of nobles, and of Loghain. His friends will still be there, but they will look at him in another way. He wants his friends to keep looking at him the way they do now.

Especially Her. The sister he never had.

He thinks about her sometimes in the evening, and then he is ashamed, because you shouldn't be thinking about your sister in that way. But what other family does he have besides her? The daughter his mother had... well, she turned out not to be much of a sister at all. What a first class bitch, he thinks, and then he is ashamed of that too, and bitter. The Chantry did its work well. Old habits are practically immortal now.

He wonders, sometimes, if there will be just one day where he isn't going to run around being ashamed of something. He comes to the conclusion that it will certainly help, once all this is over and that blasted condescending witch has gone elsewhere, and taken her ever present mocking smirk with her. She makes him feel stupid. And it's so clear she believes she is the epitome of male desire. The way she talked to Oghren the other day, so sure he was staring. Well, he _was_, but that isn't the point. Maker, he's tired of her.

* * *

><p><em>The holly bears a blossom as white as lily flower<em>

_And Brona bore Andraste to be our sweet saviour_

The Warden wonders, rather often, what it is with Morrigan. More precisely, what it is with Morrigan and Flemeth. This is why, when the former asked her help with getting rid of the latter, she said yes, but did not actually do it.

Witches or not, it is unwise to get caught up in what happens between a daughter and her mother. She has a distinct feeling that Morrigan did not mean it, too. Or rather, that she did mean it when she said it. But if it was done, she would regret it, bitterly, forever. Running away does not make you free, and if there is anything Morrigan wants, it is to be free of Flemeth. Utterly free. But somehow, there is a leash on her. And nothing a Warden can do will break that leash.

She has no doubt that there is a purpose, a reason why Morrigan was sent along. But she also remember Flemeth's eyes when she requested it, no, demanded it.

I saved you, those eyes said. You owe me.

And it is true. She did, and they do.

She often worries about Morrigan. Not because she cannot hold her own. On the contrary. She holds more than her own, and her mind is sharp as knives. But this is exactly it; an intelligent child often deceives. Her eloquence with words is that of an adult, her ways with magic are more than competent, yet the way she interacts with everyone else...how old is Morrigan, really? Seventeen? Nineteen? And yet, it is apparent that great weight rests on her shoulders already. Weight of the kind that would break grown men. The Warden does not, of course, think about herself in this way. Why should she?

* * *

><p><em>The holly bears a berry as red as any blood,<em>

_And Brona bore Andraste to do poor sinners good._

Dog watches his mistress, as she trudges through the drifts. He remembers the suitors, difficult enough to attract as it was common knowledge that if Imogen Hildegard Cousland had had just an ounce more magic in her blood, she would have been sent to the Circle Tower. The humans, he knows, fear magic. The bardic skills that this same circumstance had gifted Mistress with went only a short way to weigh up against it.

Dog remembers. It always went the same way. His usual place was in front of the fireplace in the great hall, so he could see it all: The human males arrived in the afternoon, and would usually embark on an explanation of their own breeding, and something they called 'dowry'. They talked to the Teyrn about this, and if Mistress tried to talk to them, they would act awkward. Dog remembers her asking one male about his thoughts on the recent development in Fereldan/Orlais trade relations. it made him act very strange, Dog thought, a bit like he imagines Mistress would act if he himself decided to put on clothes and walk on two legs one day (perish the thought!).

As the males would go all silent, Mistress would cease to show them any particular interest. She usually got busy talking to Fergus, or to Bard master in stead. This had one of two effects: either, the male was offended because she was not listening to him talking to her father, in which case he made excuses and left the same evening. Or, occasionally, for some reason he would be all the more fascinated. He would continute to talk to the Teyrn, but his eyes would hang by Mistress, and then sometimes, around dessert time, she would reward him with a single, assessing look.

Dog knew that look. This was the look that meant he would wake up in the night by her getting out of bed and walking through the hallways to the guest room where the visiting male was sleeping. He would sometimes follow her, and wait outside, though from one occasion he recalls a glimpse through the half open door of mistress and the surprised male. She would generally mount them the same way she mounted the dappled one when they rode on the moors outside of Highever.

Then, in the morning, she would emerge from the guest rooms in nothing but her shift, and they would walk through the castle together to the stables. There, she would mount the dappled one in earnest, and the three of them would head for the moors, leaving everyone else behind. The human male would usually have left when they returned. Many was the times Eleanor had attempted to plead with her daughter. Dog is not quite sure what the Teyrna was so upset about, but he remembers she often used the words 'reputation' and 'duty' and 'for Father's sake'.

He also recalls the answer to one of those pleas: "You must really talk to Fergus, mother dearest. I have heard he does what he pleases."

After a while, the suitors stopped coming. She didn't seem to miss them. There were shepherd boys enough on the moors.

* * *

><p><em>The holly bears a prickle as sharp as any thorn,<em>

_And Brona bore Andraste on Wintersend in the morn._

Alistair tried to be funny again. She told him where to stick it. Every time she looks at him, she feels queasy. Her insides protesting. It astonishes her. She is a priestess of the Old Gods, trained to endure hunger and thirst, to put all aside when focusing her spirit on a goal. She has participated in the spring rites with the Chasind before. This will be no different?

Except, of course, that she will go through them with one who has no idea what they respresent. Likely, he would be abhorred if she tried to explain it to him. She knows that he finds her abhorrent already, in the manner of all Andrastian men. Not because she is unattractive, but exactly because she is, while being of a sharp mind at the same time. Deep inside, this she has come to observe, they fear this combination in a woman, more than anything else. Possibly, this is why he has already tried his hand with his fellow Warden, who is less of a beauty, at least according to conventional male standards.

What a shame for him, she thinks, and is once again surprised at the barbed tongue of her inner voice, that the woman is clever enough to reject his advances.

Ah, the luxury of choice.

The thoughts of the labor came upon her while she was gathering wood for the fire. She finished it, stubbornly, and now she is cooking stew. She will be alone when it happens (when wasn't she alone?).

How will she handle it? Where will she go?

Mother, she thinks, and doesn't know if she is thinking of Flemeth, or of herself.

* * *

><p><em>The holly bears a bark as bitter as any gall,<em>

_And Brona bore Andraste for to redeem us all._

She knows she has lost her daughter. Morrigan won't come back. She remembered the argument they had when she explained it all. The girl had cried, of course, and she had to harden her heart against it, though it was threatening to break. This is how it must be, she said. This is how things will happen. You may either walk yourself or be dragged along by your hair.

But the girl was too young. Too young, and she herself too impatient. "Will you defy the will of the Gods?" she threatened. She wonders herself now, if she is really doing the will of the Gods, or if she really is just an old woman, drunk with power, as Morrigan so often accused her of being.

She can still hear the words, as the younger woman hurled them against her: "I will not defy them. But I deny you! You will never see me again. Never!"

She knows that Morrigan will do it all. All that she has labored will indeed be brought to fruition through the girl's womb. Snow is falling outside. In the darkness, she knows, this is where hope will be conceived. Hope. Conceived and born. Redemption for the world. Morrigan is too well trained, and too competent a priestess, to cower and turn away. Morrigan is the daughter she owed the world.

And now, she is alone, and she feels as if her hands are covered in blood. As Morrigan went with them, she had an overwhelming urge to cry out, to beg the younger woman's forgiveness. But she did not. She knew she had no right. She remembers her own mother as a voice, singing to her, long long ago. She cannot recall her face anymore:

_Oh, the rising of the sun and the running of the deer, The playing of the organ, sweet singing in the choir._


End file.
